|The Meeting Affair
Author: Svetlanacat PM
Sequel of Missing, and by the way, of A Friend in need and Hindsight... Friendship, trust and courage. Part TENRated: Fiction T - English - Adventure/Friendship - Illya K. & Napoleon S. - Chapters: 10 - Words: 11,334 - Reviews: 14 - Favs: 4 - Follows: 3 - Updated: 05-13-12 - Published: 04-28-11 - id: 6947043
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Lost. This time, he had lost him, in the most hopeless way.
One more time.
Poison, bullet, knife, bomb, evil plots… Of course, he had lost him so often.
He had seen him dead, a few months ago. He had stared at a lifeless, cold, body, denying the truth of it. He had touched a lifeless, cold skin, denying the truth of it.
Rightly. The body was a fake.
At the moment, a very alive, ravenous blond Russian was picking up his pasta with a quick twist of the wrist, and wolfing them down. It was fascinating.
"Napoleon? You're the one who chose the Vitello al limone. Don't even dare and look at MY pasta!"
The words were pure banter, but the gentle tone betrayed the man's concern. Napoleon Solo smiled faintly, hissing.
"I am still not sure."
Illya Kuryakin looked puzzled.
"Not sure? Not sure about what?"
The dark haired man peeped around at the calm place. Families, mostly, were taking lunch there. They didn't pay any attention to them.
A sneaky fork picked up a bit of meat from his plate.
"Your Vitello is cooling, my friend…"
"Illya, please! I am serious. I don't understand why the Doctor changed his mind. He didn't tell me anything…" Napoleon Solo forced himself to calm down. "Or what he said wasn't reassuring at all. Then, you turn up at the house, he comes, and suddenly everything is okay. No, Illya, I don't like miracles. I don't believe in miracles."
No, no. He didn't mean it. Whoever could do that… his friend needed… both of them needed a miracle. One more miracle. One more time.
Keeping vigil over a wounded partner, over a dying partner, they had done it, believing against the odds, hoping beyond reason that the man lying on the bed would survive, knowing he would, whatever the price. Surviving.
Whatever the price? Napoleon Solo sneered bitterly. They were so presumptuous, believing that the broken man, lying there, would survive, of course, and that he would be back as a field agent, as a partner, as soon as possible. They refused – no, they didn't even think of anything else. How stupid.
The blond man was musing, his blue eyes narrowed with concentration, the fork playing with the forgotten pasta. He pouted, sighed and replied.
"Miracles? Miracles are illogical, irrational. You don't believe in miracle? Neither do I. Since the very first time we met, you saved my life, I saved yours. We've managed to survive, whatever happened, against all the odds" He peeped at the pasta, absent-mindedly before looking again at his partner. "No miracles, never, Napoleon. We survived, we survive because we're well trained, skilled Uncle agents. What we get, we manage to get it." The shadow of an unexpected smile enlightened the serious face. "Our will, Napoleon, our skills, our…" He paused, biting his lips. "Our friendship, and…" He hesitated again. "And your luck."
Though he wasn't in the mood for laughing, Napoleon Solo couldn't help smiling, and even chuckling, at the priceless sight. Illya Kuryakin had raised an inquiring eyebrow, frowning immediately, and pursing his lips, though the dark haired man didn't miss the mischievous twinkling in the blue eyes.
"That's interesting, my friend. I forgot that strong, logical, rational mind of yours. A miracle is pure chimera, but luck… Luck isn't, of course."
The Russian hissed impatiently.
"Luck is a serious thing. Luck… Your luck is our ace in the hole. It has been for years, and…" He sighed and plunged the fork in the cooling pasta. "And I have to admit it, luck is a field, one of the very few ones…" He paused again, tasting the pasta and grimacing. Cold. "Perhaps the only one… you outdo me in." He looked terribly serious, now. "Your luck saved my life, Napoleon, so many times."
Napoleon Solo smiled faintly.
His luck? Napoleon Solo was known to be talented, brilliant, and lucky. And numerous other things. The proverbial Napoleon Solo's luck… But at the moment, even if he tried to act like he was calm, confident, he felt scared, powerless. Luck would be no use. They needed a miracle.
The waitress went away, beaming. This charming young blond man's face, when she had served the tiramisu… Napoleon Solo felt amazingly relaxed. The doubts, the dark clouds had blurred into the friendly atmosphere. His partner was studying the creamy cake, savoring the moment. The dark haired man bent forward.
"There is a field… one of the very few ones…" He paused, enjoying the moment. The spoon stopped on its way to the Russian's lips. Good. "Perhaps the only one you outdo me in…"
He paused again, with a mischievous grin. Illya Kuryakin rolled his eyes, shook his head and tasted the cake, obviously delighted. Delighted? Yes, he was. No matter how, no matter why, Napoleon's troubled, worried, frightened expression had disappeared. Licking the chocolate, he gave up.
"Stubbornness!" The dark haired man was still smiling, but the tone was serious. "Your stubbornness saved my life, Illya. So many times…"
His stubbornness? Yes, Illya Kuryakin was known to be talented, brilliant and stubborn. And numerous other things. The proverbial Illya Kuryakin's stubbornness was his last hope, their last hope.
They had met so many enemies, a great band of evil villains, some of them raving mad, some of them awfully clever, some of them… charming. Napoleon Solo quivered unwittingly. For years, they had fought their nasty plots. The enemies, Thrush or not Thrush, were looking for money, power, control of the world, mercilessly. Uncle agents stood in their way, fought them, mercilessly, defeated them, mostly. But during the last year, he realized, they had been battling against something different. The enemy had launched evil attacks upon Uncle itself, in order to destabilize the organisation, to get rid of it, to destroy it. Both of them had been used, as targets, and about himself – the awful thought was craning again – probably as a living booby trap.
Alexander Waverly knew it. He had kept his new CEA out of the field, as discreetly as he could, as often as he could. Vainly.
The voice gave him a start, in spite of the gentle tone. Alexander Waverly was standing in the doorway, holding a cup of coffee out to him.
"He'll survive, Mr Solo. The Doctor told you that. He'll survive, and it's something you have to cling to."
Alexander Waverly, the Old Man. Old? Yes, he looked so old, and so unsure.
"You're expendable, young men." In spite of his legendary motto, Alexander Waverly attached great value to his agents' life. All of them, of course, but familiar and heartbreaking images occurred to Napoleon Solo's mind. Illya Kuryakin, standing next to the Old Man, in a very protective attitude. The Russian and the Old Fox, tilting their heads simultaneously. Alexander Waverly putting an almost fatherly hand on Illya's arm. Blue innocent eyes exchanging some devilish knowing looks, mostly about him… Alexander Waverly believing against all the odds in his Russian's faithfulness…
He would survive. Would he really? Was that surviving? Napoleon Solo realised he was having trouble breathing. Forcing himself to calm down, he took the cup and sipped at the coffee.
"Where there is will, there is way. You know…"The Old Man cleared his throat. "You know how stubborn Mr Kuryakin is…"